In youth when oft my muse was dumb, My fancy nighly dead,To make my inspiration come I stood upon my head;And thus I let the blood down flow Into my cerebellum,And published every Spring or so Slim tomes in vellum.

Alas! I am rheumatic now, Grey is my crown;I can no more with brooding brow Stand upside-down.I fear I might in such a pose Burst brain blood-vessel;And that would be a woeful close To my rhyme wrestle.

If to write verse I must reverse I fear I'm stymied;In ink of prose I must immerse A pen de-rhymÃ¨d.No more to spank the lyric lyre Like Keats or Browning,May I inspire the Sacred Fire My Upside-downing.